


Offering

by redandwhiteroses



Series: Offerings and Blessings [1]
Category: Candyman (1992)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21851794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandwhiteroses/pseuds/redandwhiteroses
Summary: The legend of the Candyman calls to you, prompting you to leave an offering.
Relationships: Candyman x reader
Series: Offerings and Blessings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574314
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Offering

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, yes, I've fallen into the slasher fandom and can't get up.
> 
> If you want to see more of my writings, you can check out elegant-death on tumblr.

It started with a simple offering.

You’d heard the legend of Candyman. Everyone had after Helen Lyle. People talked about her the same way they talked about Jack the Ripper or Ted Bundy. You couldn’t talk about Helen Lyle without talking about the legend that started it all; it was a part of her very being now. People disagreed on whether or not she took the mythos too far, got too deep into it, or if she had been possessed by the Candyman. They all agreed that the murals were key, though. Murals and mirrors. Some believed that the mural triggered some sort of psychosis while others claimed that was how he possessed her.

You didn’t particular care either way. All that you cared about were how beautiful the murals were. They had started cropping up everywhere as soon as Helen Lyle’s story went national. No matter where they were drawn, no matter the medium used, no matter the quality, they were all beautiful to you.

They called to you.

One was near where you lived. You passed it every day, on your way to work or school or to the store. It was a little hidden, but you knew it was there. You had found it by accident one night. A strange accident, but an accident nonetheless. Apparently, you were having a particularly… strong episode of sleepwalking and had made your way over to the mural in your sleep. Your significant other at the time found you during a frantic search of the surrounding area. You were found in front of the mural, kneeling in front of it with an expression of awe on your face. You apparently had been crying as you sat there, almost weeping.

You hide the fact you went back to the mural every single day. It shouldn’t have been a shameful thing; it obviously called to you in some way. Why else would you have gone there in your sleep? Still, something felt wrong about it. As if you were worshiping a murderer. Not that you saw it that way. You knew the story of Daniel, knew how it went. You were simply paying your respects to a man who died for love. A man who had died an unjust and cruel death for love. The thought of it made your blood boil and your jaw clench. Silently, you wished that you could have been there so you could see who did it and dish out a well-deserved punishment. Perhaps something even crueler than what they had done to Daniel.

Eventually, you felt as if you should leave something at the mural. Something like that was a place to pay respects. Often, you thought of vigils after someone was murdered. Specifically, you would think of all the people, some who might not have even known the victim, leaving roses and candles and a myriad of objects at the place of the murder. You felt that, even if he was a ghost who committed atrocious acts, that you should leave something. Children got teddy bears, fireman often got crosses with their names, some people even had buildings named after them. Why shouldn’t Daniel get the same? He deserved it as much as the others. In his own way, you felt him to be a hero. 

People didn’t die for causes like love anymore. People died for senseless reasons, whether it was being attacked or defending someone. The people who committed these murders often had fame or glory or revenge on their mind; they thought it was their golden ticket into the history books. 

This man had died for love. For the crime of loving someone. While unjust and terrible, that sort of death felt… You didn’t know the right words. It felt different, at the very least. He didn’t die for country or for fame; he died for a woman. And not in the awful way that many men had done before. This felt like true love, something that had only existed inside fiction as far as you were concerned. 

You took your time thinking of what to put there. You looked at candies and box of chocolates, but none seemed right. You looked at sweets, but everyone did sweets. The same with candles. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it right. You were going to leave something that meant something more.

The idea came to you in the middle of the night. People did the murals in his honor, so why couldn’t you do something similar? He had been a painter, so you knew the arts were a good place to start. You didn’t want to do a painting or a drawing; you art wasn’t good enough for someone as talented as him. So you settled on a poem. It was a short poem, but you loved it just the same. When you eventually gathered your confidence, you went to the site of the mural and began carefully painting your words beside it. You fought to keep your hands steady as you did so. You didn’t want to ruin the poem with shaky handwriting.

After you finish, you step back to inspect your handiwork. It looks… nice. Far better than you expected. You let out a sigh of relief, shoulders lowering and eyes closing for a brief moment. A wave of contentment washed over you. Now, you might not be as fascinated, as captivated, as you were before this moment. Perhaps this was all you need to do. You take a deep breath and head back home.

Your dreams are strange that night. You don’t remember much other than they feel so vivid and real.When you wake up, you lay in bed for a few moments, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, you had to move. Slowly, you shift and roll out of your bed, shuffling towards your kitchen. You make the coffee almost on autopilot, lost to the world around you as you try to remember your dream. 

The world comes crashing back when you see it. Your coffee mug slips from your hands and shatters against the floor, coffee sloshing all over the tile. You can’t find it within yourself to care. You’re shaking, hard.

Beside your coffee pot is a small, yet beautiful, painting.

It’s a painting of you from last night as you wrote the poem on the wall. You look so ethereal in it that, for a moment, you don’t realize it’s you. It seemed like an angel of some sort. Hesitantly, you step over the pieces of the shattered mug. Your hands shake more than they have in your life as you hesitantly reach towards the painting to pick it up. Once you have it in your hands, you take a moment to examine it carefully.

It’s beautiful. 

“Thank you.” You manage before holding the painting close to your chest and beginning to cry softly. 

“Thank you.”


End file.
